


The Thunder of the Drums

by MonstrousRegiment



Series: Blood on Steel [2]
Category: Ella Enchanted - Fandom, Hannibal (TV), Valhalla Rising
Genre: M/M, i have no explanation, no, shhh just suspend diebelief and enjoy it, there's a sequel, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life must, necessarily, continue. That doesn't mean it's easy for anyone. Let alone One-Eye. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The ghost of leather lingers in his mind, though he knows full well the collar is gone. </i></p><p> </p><p>(Sequel to Blood on Steel, not stand-alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thunder of the Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Woodkid because I suck at titles. The song is 'Iron'. It's beautiful, do hear it. 
> 
> So. This happened. Yup. 15k of this happened. 
> 
> I have nothing else to say.

He startles awake expecting pain, the heavy leather collar round his neck and his wrists tied tightly enough to mark his skin. Rough cold rock against his back and the thin-worn rough cloth of his shirt, the shirt he’s sometimes allowed, and the only protection against the cold is the layer of dirt and grime and other people’s blood that coats his skin until they let him bathe. Every day he wakes and expects to be led to the next lamb for slaughter for a profit not his own. Often he wakes and hopes this will be the day he’ll stay on his knees and welcome death, but death eludes him as much as freedom, cold and slippery and distant.

But it’s not cold.

It’s warm, hot, and sweat gathers at the small of his back and the hollow of his throat. His arm is numb, but not because his wrists are tied together and the angle makes the wounded joint of his elbow ache, but rather because—

His boy is sleeping on it.

Or, not a boy. Soft like one, but taller, firmer, less innocent but just as kind. He can’t quite call him a man, this tender creature in bed with him, and yet he can’t either call him a child. Not when in the light of day there’s the blade of steely determination turning hard his soft blue eyes when he knows he must speak up as a ruler of men. Not when at night he’ll open his eyes and smile when One-Eye goes to his bed, and move aside or lie on his back and let him bruise the soft underside of his knees and his wrists and his hips.

He tries not to hurt him, when he can try at all, but his boy bruises so easily.

One-Eye shifts and pulls the boy closer, so they’re pressed chest to back. There’s sweat coating the long curving line of the boy’s spine, and One-Eye knows Char dislikes the heat, but every time One-Eye has come to his room he’s taken the pain to stock the fire high and make sure no chill slips in.

Char makes a soft sound, not-quite awake, not yet, but growing alert. He turns his face up, not all the way, not enough to look over his shoulder, but enough to let One-Eye know he’s aware of him.

“All right?” he asks in a sleepy murmur and One-Eye can only stare at the soft fan of his dark lashes against his soft cheeks, the still-red curve of his lips, the relaxed line of his trusting brows. It is like it’s never crossed this soft creature’s mind that One-Eye might strangle him in his sleep, or plunge a knife into his heart—the heart of a powerful country’s young and promising king.

Others are warier, One-Eye knows, but even the most suspicious one is always willing to watch, eyes guarded and alert, and follow Char’s lead rather than distrust.

One-Eye slips his arm from under Charmont, squeezing his side lightly before sliding out from under the covers and into the cold stone floor. Char makes a soft sound of regret at his departure, but sighs and settles back on the bed, unwilling as always to insist. One-Eye picks up his clothes from the nearby chair and pulls them slowly on, resisting the urge to stroke his bare throat. The ghost of leather lingers in his mind, though he knows full well the collar is gone.

These clothes that have been given to him are odd in fabric and design. They fit him well and yet are loose and light. They’re not like the clothes Char wears, or even those the military men and guards that hover around the King watchful and sharp prefer. These, One-Eye suspects, were made especially for him.

He laces up his boots and steps back to the edge of the bed, takes a moment to stroke the hair away from Charmont’s sweaty temple. The boy-man hums in welcome, full lips curling slightly upwards. The urge to bend down and claim his mouth is strong, but One-Eye turns away from the temptation, picking up his hatchet on his way out of the bedroom.

He stops at the door to slip his hatchet back into its place at his belt. The two guards positioned at either side of Charmont’s bedroom door nod at him, friendly and warm-eyed. One-Eye feels that they are adequate; tall and broad-shouldered, armed with swords and daggers and crossbows. There isn’t a man in this castle that would not lay their lives at Char’s feet at a gesture.

He returns the nods and treads the shadows of the corridor away until he finds the inner courtyard. One-Eye finds the hour before dawn is the most peaceful. If he lingers in bed with Char, the King begins to wake on his own, always soft-eyed and smiling in the mornings. If he does not spend the night with Char or doesn’t sleep at all, it is the hour the castle wakes.

Through the great arch of the courtyard into the servant’s wing, down the corridor to the kitchens. This is the territory of a surprisingly small but hot-tempered lady called Selina. One-Eye has learned that getting in her way is perilous to his health, and lingers silently by the doorway as the servants dash about preparing breakfast for the lords and ladies that inhabit the castle.

With a keenness unique to women oft exposed to strange and dislocated creatures, Selina rakes her clear blue eyes over One-Eye and decides that this morning he deserves a smile. Every morning since the first time he stepped into the kitchens, she gives him a long even look and seems to try a new expression. One-Eye thinks perhaps she hopes she’ll find the one he’ll respond best to.

She throws him an apple, shoots him a quick sharp smile, and then turns her back on him to continue on her duties. One-Eye pockets the apple and leaves, aware that his presence is only cumbersome.

Outside the dawn is breaking golden over Kyrria. Shafts of warm sunlight begin to pierce through the foliage of trees in the courtyard. One-Eye lingers, undecided, in the garden. He’s not certain where he would like to go. He has half a mind to return to bed, but he knows by now Char will be up. He has many duties in the morning.

He turns around when someone calls him, squinting in the sunlight.

“You’re up early,” says Ella, smiling widely at him.

Ella is all Char should want and has chosen not to take. One-Eye has not cared to explore the reasoning behind the parting of their ways, but even he is capable of discerning the depth of the bond they share. It’s still there in the eloquent looks and the fluent way they speak with gestures of hands and eyebrows. Ella is soft-skinned and beautiful and innocent, full smiles and bright eyes and swift kind touches to his arms and hands, and her hair falls like a dark cascade around her shoulders and fragile neck. She’s fragile and easy to kill. He wouldn’t need the hatchet. Only his hands.

He nods at her, blinking slowly away the rising tide. This is a battle he fights often enough. He will not do violence here in Char’s home, the home he’s been invited into.

“I think Alander was looking for you last night,” she continues, hefting the heavy bag slung across her shoulder as though it pains her. “But you went to bed early. Were you feeling ill again?”

The concern as far as One-Eye can figure is genuine, but he doesn’t reply. He wonders if she’d mourn his passing. She and Char had terminated their engagement long before the King took One-Eye to his bed, but there is always resentment. Women are complicated; they’re never transparent.

One-Eye had not gone to bed early. He had wrapped himself in a cloak that hid his face and wandered the streets for a long time, well into the night, hoping to learn the lay of streets and alleys. He’s never been in a city. He walked for hours, disoriented and disconnected, until he stumbled by chance into Margran and his men. The lieutenant had recognized him immediately and invited him to join them in drinking, with the native and startling ease of a man well accustomed to merriment and company.

“You know,” Ella gives him a speculative look, eyes narrowed, lip caught between her even white teeth. Truly no fault in her at all. If One-Eye had been anything like a man anymore, perhaps he’d have been tempted by her soft skin and long dark hair, by the pliant arch of her full lips. “I wonder if you’ve seen Char practice in the yard? He’s only starting back today.”

The girl is too sharp by half. He stares at her, caught despite himself. One-Eye has seen Char fight only once, at night and wildly. There had been a certain contained strength and economy of movement that spoke of years of training, but no savagery to speak of. There must be a technique he had failed to recognize. Charmont had been contained, controlled, precise.

Ella gives him one last wide smile and walks away, distributing her weight oddly to compensate for the bag. It must be full of books; the girl always seems to have books about her person, for one reason or another. They must make for handy weapons.

Lacking anything else to do or anywhere at all to be, One-Eye makes his way to the training yard, a great round courtyard in the outsides of the castle when men can be caught training at nearly all times. He walks slowly, taking note of the servants. There are many of them, but they are always the same ones; it is rare, now, that he’s startled to find one whom he’s not seen before.

He hasn’t missed the way in which the Castlemaster takes pains to introduce them to him if a new one is hired, but he can’t quite figure out his reasoning. The man is odd in every way, most notably the way he always seems to find One-Eye no matter where he’s wandered off to, most often to remind him of dining hours. One-Eye supposes he must have little spies everywhere that tell him of all the comings and goings in the castle. 

By the time he arrives at the training yard, the sun is well up and Charmont is already sweating in his leather training armor. One-Eye makes his way down the stairs to where general Trosk is standing cross-armed to the side, watching his king and Margran with attentive, sharp eyes.

“Morn,” he says distractedly when One-Eye come to stand next to him.

Charmont’s armor is like nothing One-Eye has seen. Clearly it is lightweight and flexible, but it repels the dull metal sword as though there is magic on it. It covers him from the backs of his hands to the arch of his feet in well-fitted overlapping pieces, with a high collar protecting up to the sharp angle of his boyish jaw. No wonder he’s sweating. But for all the drops rolling easily down his temple to his chin, he doesn’t seem out of breath.

One-Eye is well aware of how fit Charmont is, being as he is intimately acquainted with his body, but he’s never seen him exert himself to his limits.

He watches Margran feint left and then, predictably, attack upwards to the right. Trosk tsks.

“I’m going to have to get in there,” he says tiredly. “I can’t ever get someone to hurt him, can you believe it. He’s exceptionally good, but he could be better, if only people were willing to _push_ him.”

The northman pays attention. Charmont _is_ good, handling the heavy sword with the ease of the well-practiced, certain and determined, intent in his movements, never faltering. Quick on his feet and with a sharp mind, he’s giving Margran quite the workout. But One-Eye can see the way Margran pulls his thrusts and carefully devises faulty aim.

And so can Charmont. It’s rare to see Charmont irritated, but his patience with Margran’s mild attacks is wearing thin, and begins to lend a certain brusqueness to his own attacks that nevertheless fails to goad the lieutenant into brutality.

Trosk gives One-Eye a despairing look. “It’s like this with everyone. I think it’s his hair. It makes him look like a puppy.”

“I am _not_ shaving my head,” calls Charmont, shoving Margran away with a hand on his chest. He turns around and gives Trosk a despairing, exasperated look, reaching up to rake back his damp curls. His cheeks are flushed with exertion and a dark stubble is apparent on the edges of his jaw a chin; he hasn’t shaved this morning, which is odd. Normally he shaves as soon as he gets up.

There isn’t a single grey hair in his chin or his thick and silken hair, nor in the dark and tangled hairs at the base of his cock.

One-Eye controls the surge of heat clawing up his belly with the practice ease of a man long denied. Then he remembers, abruptly, that he need not deny himself; Char is always amenable to attention, and often even instigates it.

Char arches his dark brows, blinking in the rising sunlight. “How am I going to improve if no one is willing to hurt me?”

Trosk waves a hand in casual dismissal. “Get off your armor and do some endurance training. I’m not even warmed up, I’m not fighting you today.”

Char huffs in clear annoyance, but docilely puts his word in the rack and begins unlacing and pulling off the many parts of his leather armor. One-Eye can’t but track his movements as he reveals a sweat-soaked shirt, open at the collar to reveal flashes of pale unblemished skin.

“You need to train too,” says Trosk, and One-Eye catches the general giving him a long, even once-over. “You look well for your age, and you’re very fast. But you do all your fighting in short bursts, and your stamina must be total shit.”

One-Eye says nothing, but something must percolate from him nonetheless, because Trosk’s face twists, communicating an emotion that seems like an odd breed of bitterness and patience.

“I’m not threatening you, One-Eye. I’m just pointing out a deficiency. You don’t need to work on it if you don’t want to, but if you _do_ want to, you’re more than welcome. Training people is what I do. I can’t stop spotting things to improve any more than you can stop seeing threats everywhere.”

The difference is One-Eye wishes he could stop.

Char has stripped down to his breeches and is stretching the long, flat muscles of his shoulders to relieve the tension of his swordplay. Trosk is still looking at One-Eye, but the northman cannot figure out what it is he sees or wants to see. Whatever he’s looking for must not be there; Trosk reaches out, slowly, calmly, and stops with his palm open and flat inches away from One-Eye’s arm.

One-Eye knows he has not moved, but he becomes aware that his whole body has locked stiffly into alarm, and that he’s ready at any second to explode into violence. Trosk’s odd grey eyes reveal nothing, but his mouth again twists in an emotion One-Eye is helpless to understand, and then the man sighs and moves away.

One-Eye is left with the unpleasant notion that he has failed yet another test. Trosk sets them for him often, and never once tells him the rules by which he judges his performance. Most often, One-Eye understands the old general is still trying to decide whether to take him under his wing or slit his throat. On counted occasions, though, it’s as though Trosk acts hoping to catch a glimmer of something in One-Eye that was long since beaten to death.

 

X

 

Charmont holds court for the common citizens three times a week in the throne room. His throne sits upon a dais, a great, heavy wooden chair carved ornately into shapes of dragons and animals, upholstered in deep blue, the color of the royal house of Kyrria, the color Char can most often be caught wearing.

One-Eye goes to court and stays behind the shadow of the curtains, not only because there is little for him to do in the castle, but also because court makes his skin crawl. The security measures seem deplorable. The guards around the dais are too far in either direction to prevent anything bad to happen to Char if anyone wishes him harm. The dais is exposed and raised. Char is just _sitting there_.

“You don’t need to worry,” says Ella when she notices how tense One-Eye is. She seems at once tired and miserable. “The worst that could happen here already happened.”

But there is something else that calls to One-Eye. It’s in the way Char stands from his throne, or sits at it calm and regal despite his youth, the way he angles his head as he turns the whole weight of his attention on the next petitioner, how his hands sit idle and relaxed at the arms of the throne if he’s sitting or are clasped loosely at his back if he stands. He doesn’t fidget, twitch, or shift. There is more power in him in those moments than in any other; in those few moments when only a glance from him can silence a room, and a brief gesture is justice.

Those are the nights One-Eye stays away from him.

There is something inside him, buried deep and ancient, coiled black as night in the pit of his soul. It reaches out sharp claws and wants to tear Char apart, wants to rend him limb from limb and study idly the make-up of his spirit, shear aside its will and kindness and devour it. It wants to gorge in the destruction of something pure.

So One-Eye stays away. Locks himself in the room Charmont gave him for himself and rarely enters, never uninvited. This room is as lovely as any, richly furnished and sea-facing. There is a bed as big as Char’s, piled high with thick blankets because the servants have cottoned up to the fact One-Eye despises the cold.

There is so much kindness in this place, offered willingly.

One-Eye sleeps sitting up against the far wall in the darkest corner.

 

X

 

Ella and Charmont argue about a great many things. The nature of these arguments can be guessed by their volumes. Foreign policy and the rights of citizens are hushed and calm. The rights of the army over the land can be heard from the courtyard.

When they argue about One-Eye, it is at once heated and cold as ice, and very, very quiet.

“He’s not a child, nor an animal,” says Charmont now. “He’s a man, fully grown, and perfectly capable of making his own choices.”

“Is he?” hisses Ella, visibly furious. “How long was he treated like an attack dog, Char? How do you know he’s doing what he wants rather than just—not objecting to what _you_ want?”

“Making decisions about your life isn’t like speaking a language,” replies Char. “You don’t forget how to do it just because you’re out of practice.”

Ella takes a deep breath and presses her palms together against her mouth, gathering patience about herself.

“I think you should send him away just for a while.”

“Send him away?” Char laughs in disbelief. “Send him _away_? I am not his _master_. I’m no one to tell him where he ought to be or not to be; if he wants to go, he may go. I need to trust that he’s here because he _wants_ to be here.”

“How do you know that he wants anything, Char?”

“Because anything else would be a disservice to him!” Char’s voice rises and then immediately is controlled. From the shadows by the door One-Eye sees him brace himself, close his eyes and tighten his jaw until the worst of the anger has washed over him. “Ella. One-Eye doesn’t owe me anything. There’s no reason, literally no reason, for him to be here if he doesn’t want to be here. I understand your concern—sometimes I’m worried too. But I need to trust that he’s fully capable of making his own choices and deciding on his own path. Because the moment I stop believing that, I’m being condescending. And he deserves better.”

He sighs, dragging a hand tiredly down his face. “Ella, I know you want to protect him. I want that too. But the time to shield him from things is unfortunately long past. That ship has sailed. It sunk, and then came back, and became a ghost ship crewed by zombies. There is nothing left to protect him from.”

Ella exhales a sound that is halfway between a moan of pain and a growl of anguished exasperation.

“Except nuts,” amends Char. “That was bad. I didn’t consider food poisoning when I invited him to move continents, that was shitty. But other than nuts,” he says more firmly. “All bad that could possibly happen to him was happened. All we can do now is give him ground to build on. And in order for me to do that, we need to believe that he knows he can leave if he wants to, or stay if he wants to, or leave and then come back and… variations thereon. The point is, he knows. Thinking he doesn’t know is being condescending.”

There is a long pause.

“Have you noticed he’s started to lurk by the side when you hold court and stare at you intently?”

“Oh no, that’s fine, he’s always done that. It’s just his face. It’s intense.”

Ella stares at him. “You went from girl-with-the-curse to intense-murdering-northman in one leap. You have range, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re one to talk. At least One-Eye hasn’t tried to _kill me_ ,” replies Char, grin incongruently wide.

Ella throws a book at his head and misses by inches. Probably on purpose.

 

X

 

There are visions. They are few and far between, but they are there, tinted red and tasting like ash of burnt bodies on his tongue and throat.

He sees himself splitting logs on a field with an axe. He sees Alander running across the night, chased by horrors. He sees Char in a bed, fevered and dying. What lies beyond that vision is darkness as black as moonless night. He supposes that must be him, dying.

The only way anyone could get to Charmont is through his dead body.

 

X

 

It’s in the soft dim light of dusk, in the hour of transition from day to night, that One-Eye is at peace. The dark writhing thing inside him quiets for long moments as the sun sinks into the horizon, and it’s restful inside him. He is alone inside himself.

In those odd moments, he can allow himself to stretch Char on his back on the King’s bed and taste his skin without bruising his wrists as he holds him down or breaking the fragile skin of his clavicles with his teeth.

This night it’s raining outside, a soft murmur of waterfall beyond the open window, and they haven’t even made it to the bedroom. One-Eye found Char in his reading room, sitting cross-legged and calm as he re-reads a document Ella wrote. Wordlessly, he’d tangled a hand on the boy’s curls and angled up his face so he could claim his mouth. He’s discovered in himself the unexpected willingness to let Char lay him down on his back and strip him naked and sink down between his thighs.

He’s doing something with his mouth that One-Eye did not think could be done. On his back on the couch, with one leg folded up and the other foot flat on the warm carpet, One-Eye can do little more than grip the armrest above his head with one hand and try to keep his hips in check. He has half a notion Char would not mind being gripped by the hair—he hasn’t complained before—but One-Eye is wary to disturb him when his cock is deep inside the King’s mouth.

When it comes the orgasm fractures over him like fire, exploding up his spine and stealing his breath. He thinks if he could he might have screamed. For long moments later the world is blurred and incomprehensible, but for the way Char snakes up over his body and thrusts against his hip. His breath comes in hot wet pants against one-Eye’s cheek, open-mouthed and fast. One-Eye has enough mind to slide a hand down the King’s sweat-slicked back and encourage him, his other arm still draped loosely over his head, until Char’s back arches and he comes wetly over One-Eye’s bare stomach.

They lie for a long while like that on the couch, loose-limbed and sated in the firelight. It’s grown late in the evening now, and nearly a full day after his shave a dark stubble has risen along Char’s jaw. One-Eye scrapes the rough pad of his thumb across it, feeling the solid bone underneath the pale skin.

Char is heavy, muscle and sinew and bone. His chest presses down on one-Eyes with as he inhales and his breath is hot against his jaw with every exhalation. He is unbearably, startlingly, magnificently _alive_.

 

X

Charmont begins every morning with swordfight. This morning One-Eye picks up one of the blunted steel swords and tilts his head inquisitively at Trosk.

“He’s better than you with a sword,” warns the general. “When was the last time you used one of those?”

One-Eye shrugs slightly. He can’t remember.

Trosk eyes him doubtfully and then turns to Char, already armored and sweating in the yard.

“Start him up slow and gauge his ability,” he calls out to the King. “Let him push. We’ll see how it goes.”

One-Eye steps into the yard just as Margran murmurs, “You think One-Eye’s not going to go right for the throat? Because I think ‘go easy on him’ is something that happens to other people.”

Trosk grunts. “I don’t care what One-Eye does. Charmont’s the best swordsman I’ve ever trained. He’ll control the fight one way or the other. And control, by the way, is exactly what One-Eye needs to learn.”

“You want to _train_ the hatchet-wielding mute psychopath?”

One-Eye stops and turns around, staring at Margran.

Margran points at him. “No offense, I like you, you drink like a fish and it’s beautiful to watch, but you’re not right in the head, and I’m not very comfortable with the idea of you handling swords anywhere near and in the general direction of my King!”

Trosk looks suspiciously blank. “We need to have a bees-and-bees conversation, I think.”

“Cheap joke,” protests Charmont, coming to stand next to One-Eye and looking exasperated.

“You are not funny,” complains Margran, glaring at his general.

“I’m a little funny. You’re just overprotective.”

Then he gestures in dismissal, and Char touches One-Eye’s arm to encourage him to move away to the middle of the yard. Margran and Trosk are still arguing, quietly but furiously, behind them. But Char seems unconcerned; and One-Eye knows that for all his misgivings, Margran will not step in unless he believes One-Eye is moving to truly hurt his king.

“ _Well_ ,” says Char, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know a man respects you when they tell you precisely what they think of you and at a volume.”

He eyes One-Eye hesitantly for a moment, reaching out to brush his fingertips along the scarred skin of his forearm.

“You’re alright? He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Words are meaningless to One-Eye. Even the unkind ones are blunter than any hatchet, and can do no harm. Instead of replying, he tests the balance of his training sword in his hand. It is long and heavy, but perfectly balanced. The grip is long enough for him to wield it with both hands.

Char sees his motions and moves swiftly away. He looks at ease and loose-limbed, as comfortable in his leather armor as he does in a velvet jacket. He’s a creature of a great many worlds, only occasionally stealing onto One-Eye’s.

“You’re certain you don’t want an armor?” he asks, in the tones of someone who already knows the answer but still must ask.

One-Eye replies by thrusting at his thigh. The ease with which Char parries his thrust is startling. One-Eye waits for him to take the obvious opening, but Char remains standing calm and well balanced at a distance. One-Eye circles him, watching the way he adjusts slightly to face him, sword up and at the ready but obviously on the defense. He is, as per Trosk’s command, letting him push.

The northman wonders what it would take to bate him into anger. He’s never seen Char angry; he’s not naturally inclined to it, and has learned through years of courtly duties to restrain himself. He thrusts again, coming in close to force Char to put up a fight. But the King bats away his sword and shoves him away with a hand on One-Eye’s shoulder, stepping away as though they’re walking together and not fighting.

Heat begins to build along One-Eye’s back, and it’s not just the sun beating down on his thin shirt.

To the side, Trosk calls out, “Don’t let him get in close. He’s used to brawling. He needs an opening.”

“I’ve seen him fight, Trosk,” replies Char, cool as a forest creek.

So he has, and has apparently learned just how One-Eye moves.

Time has become elastic and pliant for One-Eye, who can only with a lot of effort keep track of the passing of hours. He had learned to measure the passing of days by whether he was left alone in his cage or he was take out for a fight. There is no cage and there are no fight now, so time dissolves meaninglessly around him. 

He’s aware, though, that long hours must pass in this way, with Char just out of reach of his sword, his own replies to One-Eye’s attacks varying in violence from moving simply away to bodily pushing him outside his guard. Once, and only once, when One-Eye fails to take advantage of an opening, Char hits him with the flat of his sword across the thigh. It stings and it might bruise, but he very clearly meant it as an admonishment.

“I know I told you not to let him close,” says Trosk, frowning. “But you’re toying with him.”

“I’m really not,” answers Char, raising his sword abruptly in an arc and tangling it with One-Eye’s so swiftly he hardly sees it coming. One-Eye’s sword plunges into the sand of the yard. Unexpectedly, Char allows that which he’s been so far dodging; he slips right into One-Eye’s personal space and shoulders him aside with enough force to make him stagger away from his sword. The King shakes his head, pushing wet hair out of his eyes.

“He’s not pushing,” he says, glancing at Trosk. The general’s eyes widen.

“Don’t take your eyes off—“

But it’s too late. Unarmed, One-Eye knows exactly how to go about this fight. Char whips around and his sword comes up in time to gleam in the space between their chests. One-Eye grips the blade and twists it brutally away; he’s surprised that Char manages to hold onto it, and sees the narrowing of the King’s eyes just before, shockingly, his knee comes up and the leather guard lands harshly on One-Eye’s ribs.

He grits his teeth and catches the underside of Char’s knee, meaning to unbalance him. Char drops the grip of his sword and jabs an elbow into one-Eye’s chest, spinning quickly away from his grasp. In a split-second reaction, the northman reaches out and catches his armored leather collar, yanking him back into range. He means to put him on a chokehold, but Char twists like a fish and drives his shoulder viciously into One-Eye’s chest.

It’s cleat to the northman now that Char does not mean to concede this fight or lose his ground. He knows perfectly well that in a brawl One-Eye holds all the advantages; he’s taller, heavier, and stronger. He’s been fighting like this for years, unarmed and close. If he catches him, Char will inevitably lose.

A new problem makes itself apparent, and One-Eye isn’t certain Char is unaware of it.

One-Eye has grown fatigued. Years of fighting in short bursts have deteriorated his stamina, and the swordfight has demanded a lot of it. Intentionally or not, Charmont has exhausted him, and whatever they do now the fight will not last long.

Knowing he must end it soon, One-Eye forcibly drags Char close and attempts to catch his wrist. But Char sees his intentions; getting both palms flat on One-Eye’s chest and snaking a foot behind one of his knees, he _shoves_ —and unbalances him.

One-Eye manages to hold onto him even as he falls, and isn’t quite aware of what he’s doing until his forehead explodes in pain and his back hits the sand, stealing his breath away. Something warm splatters his face. He’s aware of Char scrambling wildly away, and reaches out a hand blind to catch him by the hair. When his vision clears again he discovers Char’s nose is bleeding profusely, painting his lips and chin bright red.

He freezes. His stomach turns at the sight—that he’s drawn blood from his own lover is disgusting and unforgivable—but the dark and ugly thing inside him rises like a tide, and it wants to _taste_. Something twisted and ugly must show on his face, because Char’s eyes grow wide, and the elbow he aims at the blind side of One-Eye’s head is anything but gentle.

It’s very obvious now that they are wrestling on the ground that One-Eye has won, but Char remains calm throughout, and although the end of the fight has lent a new violence to his actions, he doesn’t panic. He also doesn’t surrender, even when One-Eye manages to catch both of his wrists I one hand and twist them painfully against the small of his back, pinning him to the sand so his own weight aids him in keeping them trapped. The position is difficult for One-Eye, who ends up straddling the King’s thighs in order to pin them down and deny him all hopes of leverage enough to overturn them or throw One-Eye off.

But as much as it’s awkward for him, it’s the end for Char, and he knows it. So there is no need for One-Eye to curl over him and grasp his throat.

He does it anyway.

Char goes very still, green-blue eyes wide, sweat-soaked hair sticking wetly to his forehead. In the scuffle sand has stuck to his cheeks and the blood painting his face. The bleeding itself appears to have stopped; the nose must not be broken, then.

Long moments of silence crawl by as Char wriggles slightly, intent and focused, chafing his wrists against the insides of his leather armor. Drops of sweat from One-Eye’s face roll down to his face and smear the blood down his cheeks like pink wine.

Finally he laughs, breathless and exhausted, and goes limp in One-Eye’s grasp.

“I yield,” he sighs, watching One-Eye with fond half-lidded eyes.

Like he hasn’t just treated him like prey instead of the equal or better he is, like the king of a realm with thousands of men at his beck and call. Like he hasn’t hurt him, though the blood is still fresh and wet and smeared on the high collar of his armor.

One-Eye’s stomach lurches. He gets up abruptly enough that he goes light-headed, and his shoulder collides with Trosk’s. He hasn’t even felt the general come close, has failed to hear him or sense him at all.

Trosk takes one look at his face and goes very still, something odd and alien flickering across his pale eyes.

“He’s fine,” he says, very softly. “This is a training yard, blood is the norm. It’s fine.”

“You got trashed,” is saying Margran, crouching down to peer at Char, who is lying on his back in the sand and blinking slowly. “That was pitiful.”

One-Eye has half a notion that Trosk is trying to appease whatever emotion he sees in his face, but he is failing. One-Eye is alarmed that he’s this transparent, that anyone can see his thoughts written plainly in his face. It means that those around him can see what he holds dear, and that means they will, inevitably, tear it apart.

If he doesn’t do it first himself.

Char is blinking at him now, bracing himself up on his elbows. Sweat-soaked and bloody, covered in sand, his nose and underside of his eyes already bruising. One-Eye has never seen anything so beautiful, and has never at once felt such need to possess it and destroy it.

He turns around and walks away.

 

X

Alander is the only one who ever comes looking for him if he’s in a mood. He’s also the only one who comes into his room unannounced and uninvited, like One-Eye’s personal space or inclinations mean little.

One-Eye doesn’t mind.

“He hasn’t been looking for you,” the boy says, standing in front of him. One-Eye is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall in the corner he sleeps in. “I wonder if you want him to.”

One-Eye closes his eyes and lets his head tip back against the wall. Alander sighs and sinks down on the floor next to him, close enough that his shoulder brushes One-Eye’s arm.

Alander looks at him, pale eyes silvered in the moonlight. “Are you worried that the thing inside you will eat him up?”

One-Eye glances at him and the flicks his eye away.

“It’s not big enough,” mumbles Alander. “You’re not big enough. I mean—he’s… bigger,” he gestures vaguely with his hands, confused by his own words. “He’s too bright. No matter how dark you are, you can’t smother him.”

He sighs, letting his shoulders slump.

“If you want to know how far he’ll let you go, you’ll just have to push and see.”

He falls quiet for a long time, sitting there with One-Eye, at peace in the darkness with a monster.

“Have you ever, and I mean at least _once_ , slept on the bed?”

When One-Eye stares at him, Alander snorts.

“No, I totally understand. Why sleep on a perfectly serviceable bed when you can sleep on the cold hard floor by the wall, right? Makes perfect sense.”

 He gets up, drags a blanket over to throw over One-Eye’s legs, and then settles back down next to him under the blanket, all the while grumbling crossly.

“I’ll put bars in the window,” he says at last, dropping his head on One-Eye’s shoulder. “And then laugh until I die when you sleep better than without them.”

There is one truth. The bars kept him inside. They also kept the others outside.

Outside was safer.

 

X

 

Alander doesn’t stir when he hoists him in his arms and puts him on the bed sometime later in the night.

When he goes out into the hallway, the guards by Char’s doors stop their murmured conversation to nod amiably at him. They don’t stop him when he walks between them and opens the door, and they don’t protest when he comes into the King’s room unannounced and closes it, even though it’s well into the night and Char is most likely asleep and vulnerable.

He’s sprawled on the bed on his stomach with his back to the door, like he has absolutely no concerns that might disturb his sleep. The sheets have fallen down to the small of his back, and One-Eye can see the light bruise there from his struggles that morning. His wrists are uncovered but smell faintly of an unguent, the skin reddened and scratched.

His face is turned away, so One-Eye can’t see the consequences of the earlier violence. He wants to undress and climb into bed with him and press himself all along the curving length of his spine, feel the way he writhes when he strokes his cock, taste his breath in his own mouth when he moans.

What he does is wrap a hand around his upper arm and drag him harshly out of bed, shaking him when he stumbles.

“What—“ Char blinks, disoriented and surprised, and then gets his feet under him and stands, growing swiftly alarmed. “I’m up. What’s wrong?’

In the hard white moonlight, One-Eye squeezes his arm and shoves him and tumbles him cruelly to the floor. Char goes down and comes back up almost immediately, frowning and throwing up his hands in what looks like a placating gesture.

“Alright, you’re angry. Can you tell me why without—“

 _Strike back_ , thinks One-Eye, and shoves him harshly against the wall. Char’s head nocks against the stone with a sickening sound. One-Eye grabs him by the air, and the King twists away, putting distance between them.

“I guess you can’t,” he mumbles, falling into a firmer stance that will allow him to confront One-Eye’s brutality better. “Whatever I did, if only you will just explain—“

One-Eye means to pin him, but Char will not allow it, all too aware that One-Eye would win. It’s clear to the northman that Char has no idea why this is happening or what has prompted it, but that he’s willing to let One-Eye exhaust his anger on him and wait until he’s calm and can communicate better.

It only makes him angrier.

 _Strike back_ , he thinks, and wishes he could scream at him. But Charmont won’t; he dances away, dodging him by inches, slipping by him and circling around him, always in the room, always quiet. He doesn’t let him anywhere near enough to grasp, but nor does he cry out for help or attempt to restrain or stop him. His sword is meters away sitting on its rack. On his desk lies a letter opener sharp and long enough to reach One-Eye’s heart and slice it in two.

Just like this morning, only this time he does it intentionally. He’s hoping whatever fuels One-Eye will burn itself out in time, and they’ll be able to speak about it.

It won’t do. He still knows he’s in control of this situation, he still thinks he can stop One-Eye when it counts.

Char puts a table between them and raises his hands again. He looks concerned, but the concern is not for himself. He’s glancing at the door, worried that the guards outside will hear and come in. One-Eye grits his teeth and overturns the table to the side, where it crashes loudly as the bottles of ink and sand shatter on the stone floor.

Charmont flinches, and jerks away a moment too late. One-Eye catches him by the throat and pins him against the wall, grim in his resolve. The guards do not pause in shock; the moment they see them they are drawing their swords. Char’s hand flies up to grasp his wrist; the other he puts out to the guards.

“Stay back,” he rasps. “Don’t come any closer.”

“He’s not armed. We can take him.”

“Stay,” insists Char firmly. His eyes flick back to One-Eye, calm and clear. This is madness. Even now he’s not fighting back. One-Eye could kill him with a gesture. The hand he’s wrapped around One-Eye’s wrist is only there like Char is looking for a connection between them, not to try to claw him away.

“What is it?” he asks, voice a strangled rasp.

The sickness is rising again in One-Eye’s stomach. Baring his teeth, he tightens his hold and throws Char to the side so he crumples on the floor, coughing. The soldiers flinch but remain at a distance, waiting for Char to give permission. They would have trouble subduing One-Eye before he can hurt the King and they all know it. They need to wait until he’s far away from him before they rush him.

There is a long moment of stillness. Then Charmont rises gracefully to his feet, eyes like green fire and mouth twisted in what, yes, looks gloriously like _anger_. At last.

“So that’s what you want,” he says, tone low. Something inside One-Eye tightens and goes cold. “You want me to stop you.”

The silence stretches like molasses between them.

“Go ahead,” murmurs Charmont at length. “If you want me dead, kill me. If you don’t, then stop _yourself_.”

He plats both hands on One-Eye’s chest and shoves him viciously away, then stalks forward and does it again when One-Eye stumbles. The guards jerk, alarmed.

“Go ahead,” he insists, bending to pick up the letter opener. He snatches One-Eye’s wrist and puts it in his hand, harshly enough it hurts his palm. “Come on, northman. You want to kill me, _kill me!_ ”

“Sir,” the older guard steps forward, anxious.

“Stay back,” snaps Charmont, narrowed eyes never leaving One-Eye’s face. “He won’t hurt me. That’s not what he came here for. He came here to goad me into controlling him. He wants me to draw the line in the sand for him.”

Charmont is absolutely, breathtakingly, stunningly _furious_. His hands are shaking with anger, and his face is livid, eyes all the more bright for the contrast between his pale skin and dark hair.

“Well, I won’t,” he bites out. “You’re your own man. Make your bloody choices and live with the consequences. If I wanted a lover to order around,” he adds, something cruel and jagged shifting in the green of his eyes, deliberate and well-aimed.  “I would have _bought_ one.”

It’s meant to infuriate One-Eye into action, and it very nearly succeeds. All of his body feels hot and tightly coiled, his heartbeat beating in every inch of skin. But the thing inside him is restful and silent, and there is no one in his mind but himself. There is only One-Eye and the vast, immense, bright creature that is Charmont, his scent of fresh grass and rainwater and damp soil. Alander is right; Charmont throws too much light for any shadows to withstand him. And in his brightness, gold like sunlight, One-Eye is alone in his own mind.

He looks at the guards. The younger one dips his eyes, awkward. But the older raises his chin and stares him down, proud and firm and impervious to pity.

The letter opener clatters to the floor. One-Eye turns away and walks out of the bedroom, into the hallway, out of the castle. The stables are quiet at night, but the stableboy sees him coming and stands up, solicitous.

“Your horse is in the last stall, sir. Would you like me too—“

He has a horse. Of course he has a horse. Charmont would have thought to make anything he might need available to him, should he choose to leave abruptly. He yanks the stall door open and mounts him without a saddle. The stableboy backs quickly out of the way and wordlessly offers up a bit and reins. One-Eye has enough patience to allow him to put them on the horse, and then he is urging the animal forward and out of the stable.

On his way out of the castle yard he passes Alander. The boy looks sleepy and puzzled, but he doesn’t make a single gesture to stop him.

No one does.

 

X

 

He rides steadily for hours until he’s left the city behind. The soldiers he passes nod at him, wave, or even greet him, but no one lifts a hand to stall him. By evening he’s deep enough in the forest that the city is hidden by the trees.

Things old and evil lurk in the shadows, but even they skirt away from One-Eye. He finds a stream and sleeps on his back on the grass.

The next day he rides further south until he finds a road, and follows it as it curves to the east across fields of wheat and corn.

He fishes in a river and cooks the fish in the shade of an old willow tree, its old branches swaying lazily in the breeze and dragging across the damp soil beneath. The third days he spends in a cave by a great waterfall, waiting for the thundering rain to ease.

At the close of the first week he’s walking calmly with his horse when he comes across a pair of young girls struggling with an axe. It’s too heavy for them and they will harm themselves if they continue to try to use it to split logs.

One-Eye gestures at them. Their soft hazel eyes—they are identical twins—travel along his scarred face and well-cut but travel-dirtied clothes and appear in the end to judge him suitable.

“Will you help us, sir?” one of them asks, smiling tentatively. “Father is away and we need wood for the cookfire.”

“We’ll give you dinner in exchange,” her sister says.

One-Eye splits the logs, has spicy stew for dinner, and spends the night in the stable next to a snoring goat and its warmth-hungry baby, which insistently nestles against his stomach despite his repeated attempts to push it away. His horse snorts. One-Eye thinks it must be amused.

He loses track of time for a stretch as he travels an enchanted forest, amused by the way the trolls and monsters shy away from the thing coiled deep inside him. One night he has dinner with a group of traveling elves that insist repeatedly that they will not sing for him. One-Eye shrugs, disinterested, and is startled when it endears him to them.

Sometime later the forest ends and he reaches the sea. He undresses and sinks into the waves, lets them scrape his skin raw against the sand in their anger, lets the salt water sting the scratches and paint salty the inside of his throat and nostrils. When the sun sinks into the sea at last he goes back to the forest edge and lies down in the grass, watching the stars.

He jerks awake at dawn and isn’t sure what has shocked him, until he realizes he was reaching across the grass for someone that isn’t there.

He slumps back into the grass and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone or how far he is. He thinks maybe it’s time he went back. He misses Char, misses the way he snuggles against him at night and laughs uncontrollably when One-Eye can’t quite figure out the knobs in his shower wall, always without malice. Misses the way he never offers to help but arranges it so someone does, always subtly, always kindly.

He misses Trosk’s despairing and dismayed looks when Char fails to notice how much Kyrria orbits around him like a moon around its planet, and the way Margran rolls his eyes and palms his face when Alander drops an arrow rather than knock it correctly on the bowstring. He misses the way Ella will squint at his food to make sure there are no nuts in it even though One-Eye checks himself and Boris the Castlemaster would never allow any nuts to go into a room One-Eye might set a foot in.

People in Kyrria are protective; and, in a quite unlikely and unexpected manner, they are protective of _him_. 

This is the ground he’s building on.

 

X

 

He’s barely left the horse in the stable when Boris materializes at his shoulder, nodding in greeting.

“Glad to have you back, sir,” he says, perfectly honest. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon. It’s only been two and a half months.”

He’s only saying that for One-Eye’s benefit, quite aware that time slips him by. Two and a half months seem like a long time to leave badly and without an explanation; even he, uncivilized as he is, can see that.

“Lady Ella requested I send you her way first if you did return,” he said, subtly putting himself in the way when One-Eye means to go to Char’s room.

One-Eye has no interest in seeing Ella. He wants Char. But Boris insistently blocks him, polite but firm. One-Eye sets his jaw and nods at last, understanding he will not be allowed to see the king if he doesn’t let Ella skin him alive first. Boris nods and leads the way to Ella’s office by the great Record Room.

The girl has been warned that One-Eye is back, and is waiting for them. Her smile seems genuine enough.

“Welcome home. You look, um. Tan.”

She makes a face at her own comment and waves a hand when Boris clears his throat.

“Char wasn’t expecting you to come back so soon, so he didn’t leave any instructions, but um. There was a, like a thing, with diplomats, so he went. Away. But he said it would only be a couple of weeks so he should be back in a few days, not to worry. And you can absolutely crash in his room.”

She is lying, and poorly.

One-Eye nods and leaves her without another glance. He trusts only two people in this castle that will tell him the truth, and they are Alander and Trosk. Alander is unlikely to know the truth, so One-Eye goes to the barracks, where the general can be found in the afternoons.

The soldiers standing outside the general’s office blink at him, but no one stops him when he opens the door and steps inside.

Trosk is not alone. He’s sitting to his desk with a toddler balanced on his lap, the girl incongruously dressed in a pink and frilly dress in the war room.

The general stares at him.

“One-Eye,” he says smoothly. “Meet my granddaughter, Alina. Alina, this is Uncle Char’s friend, One-Eye.”

“His eye is weird,” says the toddler, swinging startling olden eyes onto One-Eye.

“He’s all weird,” replies Trosk with equanimity. “Have a seat, One-Eye. Welcome back. The trip was pleasant?”

One-Eye nods vaguely. Alina stares at him, seems to decide he’s unimportant and wholly uninteresting, and goes back to playing with the doll on her hands.

“You saw Ella?”

Another nod. Trosk peers at him for a moment. “She tried to lie to you?”

One-Eye arches a brow.

“Yeah, she tries, but she’s really bad at it. And also, lying is really, really bad, isn’t it, Alina?”

“Really bad,” agrees the girl distractedly. She glances at One-Eye and appears to think she must somehow include him in this exchange. “You have snow in your beard.”

“No, sweetheart, he’s just old,” chuckles Trosk. He hoists the girl up and sits her gently on the floor before turning back to One-Eye. “He’s been gone for two weeks and already late in his return. I sent hawks to find out his whereabouts. If I don’t have an answer by tomorrow evening, I’m sending out the army. Did Ella tell you why he left?”

One-Eye shakes his head slightly, watching the girl get up and round the desk to stare at him from up close. He stares back.

“There was a note,” starts Trosk heavily. One-Eye’s eye snaps back to him. “I don’t have it here, but it suggested that someone was attempting to traffic free elves into the neighboring country against their wills. As you know, slavery is illegal in Kyrria and punishable by death. It’s been a personal endeavor of the royal family throughout generations—except for one memorable exception—to ensure that it does not go unpunished. Char went out to deal with it himself, alongside a guard of fifty well-trained soldiers. It was supposed to be a small contingent of a dozen hostiles. We haven’t heard form then in a week.”

One-Eye works his jaw silently. Something brushes his hand, and he flinches away. The girl is staring at him from inches away from his knee, the hem of her doll’s dress trailing across the floor.

“There’s dirt in your cheek,” she says severely, reaching for his face. One-Eye stays stock-still as she wipes at his left cheek below the ruin of his eye, until she’s satisfied that it’s as clean as it can be. Then, wordlessly, she climbs up his thigh and settles there to play with her doll. Helpless, One-Eye steadies her with a hand on her small, warm back, and stares back at Trosk.

The general is smiling faintly, something warm and fond in his eyes. “Children are smarter than adults,” he says, and then his smile fades. “One-Eye, I sent Alander out with them. He wants to be a scout and he was ready.”

Something cold and ugly twists in the pit of One-Eye’s stomach.

“Either way, we’ll know tomorrow.”

It’s not a dismissal. One-Eye recognizes that Trosk will be amenable to him lingering here in this office with him and his little granddaughter. But he’s restless and angry and lost like a rudderless boat. Gently, he lifts the girl away and surrenders his chair to her. Trosk watches him with soft, heavy-lidded eyes.

“It’s good to have you back, in any case,” he says finally.

The guards outside the kings’ bedroom are younger, less experienced. They glance at One-Eye and nod amiably before returning to their conversation. One-Eye slips into Char’s bedroom and pauses.

The table he ruined has been replaced by a similar one. Bottles of ink and drying sand are capped and arranged randomly on it, some of them sitting irresponsibly over piles of neatly organized paper. One-Eye reaches out and moves the bottles away to make sure the ink doesn’t stain the paper.

The rack that usually holds Char’s royal armor is empty, but the leather training one is still on its rack, thrown over it in much less careless fashion. He walks over it and picks up one of the leather vambraces, flexible and light-weight, turns it idly in his hands for a long moment.

Something that he only half remembers is clawing cruelly at his stomach, slicing him open from the inside.

He puts the leather back and sits on the edge of the bed. It’s been long enough and the room is cleaned and aired often enough that Char’s scent is gone from it. There is no peace to be found here. All the peace has gone with Char and Alander.

He stalks out of the room and into his own, next door. But his room, aired and cleaned as regularly and diligently as the King’s, is even less a home. He’s tired enough that the bed looks tempting, but his stomach turns at the thought of sleeping alone on such an obvious place, where anyone would find him. He bathes instead, vaguely aware of the dirt of his travels and the tangled state of his hair. Once he’s clean and has changed clothes, he goes out again and is startled to nearly run into Margran, just outside his door.

“General Trosk said you were back,” says Margran, frowning faintly at him. “I was going to ask if you remembered to eat today at all, but I can guess the answer.”

One-Eye stares at him. Wordlessly, he turns around and walks back into his room, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Okay,” Margran follows him in, arching his brows. “I was expecting more of a ravenous look than dismay, but I guess this is happening. You want to tell me what’s tearing you apart, buddy?”

One-Eye looks up at him.

“Sorry,” Margran grimaces. “I guess not. Let’s play a game called ‘guess what ails the psychopath’—oh, by the way, I have your hatchet, I had it re-sharpened.”

He drags over a chair and sits down in front of One-Eye, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

“I’m going to go for the obvious here,” he grins, knife-sharp. “The King and Alander are missing. They’re pretty much all you have besides your hatchet and the ominous set of your brow-bone, isn’t that what you feel?”

One-Eye’s brow hitches helplessly.

“Well, you’re wrong. There’s also the haughty nose, it’s impressive. No, wait, sorry, I’ll be serious.”

He spreads his hands for a moment and then, very deliberately, sets his palms warmly against One-Eye’s shoulders.

“You’re family now,” he murmurs. “We’re getting Charmont back and don’t you doubt it for one second. But even if we don’t, this is still a place you’re welcome to be in. Maybe not this room,” he amends. “because this is the consort’s room, and that would be weird. But definitely in the castle. Or the barracks. Well, the city for sure. I’d offer my apartment, but it’s only got one room, and that would be really awkward. But you can absolutely drop by whenever and get outrageously drunk.”

He pauses for a long moment, frowning.

“So yeah,” he says at length, satisfied. “Glad we cleared that up. Are you done, with the sulking, and the brooding? Can we go eat now? Hey, your hair is really long. You should probably shave. The beard, not the hair. You have big ears, so that would be… bad.”

He slaps his thighs and jumps to his feet, abruptly energized. Screaming “Lunch!” he walks right out of the bedroom, without once glancing over his shoulder.

Utterly bewildered, One-Eye can do nothing but get up and follow.

 

X

 

A hawk carries a letter in the next morning. It’s brief and to the point:

_King ambushed north of Frell. Wounded in battle. Severity unknown. All men dead but five. Scout pursues on foot._

Trosk’s eyes snap up, bright with fury. To Margran he says, “Gather the Army. I want five hundred men ready to march on the hour.”

To the aides by the doors he says, to one: “Call the Council and Lady Ella.” To the other: “Get me an armor-maker with a suit he can adapt to One-Eye in less than an hour.”

The boys bolt. One-Eye stares at him.

“I can live with you training unprotected,” says the general. “But I’m not taking you into combat without something to at least cover your chest. We’ll make it lightweight, it won’t compromise your reach. But you’re wearing it.”

One-Eye presses his palms against the desk and lets his head hang forward. Trosk pauses momentarily, and then lays a hand gently on his back. This, somehow, fells right. Trosk will not hurt One-Eye whimsically, he will stand before him and intercede in his favor, will protect him from what little he can. Trosk is a good man. There is precious little of those left, but they seem, somehow, to have found their way around One-Eye.

Trosk, who trusted him with his own granddaughter.

“It’ll be fine,” he says softly. “Charmont’s a though bone to gnaw on. And I only sent two scouts with them. That could be Alander.”

It also could be the other one. Alander might be rotting in a ditch by the road somewhere. The boy is his; One-Eye is his shield. He should never have left him alone. Even under the light of Charmont’s innate magic, the world claims innocent souls like his in the blink of an eye.

Trosk sighs and rubs his face with his other hand.

“You know, back a while a few weeks after we came back, I asked the King what he was hoping for you in the future.”

One-Eye looks up, frowning.

“I asked him if I could draft you into the Army. You’re a brilliant fighter, and I’d love to have you. But Charmont and I agreed on one thing, which is why I never offered, and that thing was that you’ve had enough violence, One-Eye. More than enough. So I’m not going to ask you to stay behind now. If you want to, then we can do that. It’s your choice. But when we come back, you think you could maybe think about going into gardening? Or knitting? Something without violence, please. I’ll ask my wife to teach you to play the piano, I don’t care.”

One-Eye doesn’t know a world without violence. He doesn’t think such a thing exists. But he nods.

Trosk looks cynical. “You agree because you’ve never seen her teach someone how to play the piano. You think fighting like a madman chained to a pole for a decade was bad? You poor sod.”

 

X

 

“They lured him out,” says Ella half an hour later. One-Eye looks up form where the man is adjusting straps of leather to the fastenings on his breastplate. This is not the right place for fitting an armor, the Council chambers, but One-Eye wants to be here and Trosk has not objected.

“How?”

“They know about his crusade against slavery. It’s practically family tradition. It’s his protocol to go out there and deal with it _personally_.”

“Ransom?” asks Trosk, and catches, without looking, One-Eye’s wrist before he can shove the metalworker’s hands away from his vulnerable armpit. He holds on to it until the man moves around to One-Eye’s back. Then he squeezes and releases him.

“Not likely,” Ella frowns. “Kidnapping a king doesn’t pay. Nobody ever negotiates; they come down hard and heads roll.”

“What else could they want him for if not to negotiate?”

Ella’s lips twist.

“The Seal of Plantagenet,” she says ominously. Cold shocked silence falls over the room.

“Blood magic,” grunts a Councilman. “Then this gets worse. Do they need him alive?”

“The seal is a contract,” replies Ella. “The magic obeys him. He needs to command it.”

“So alive,” recounts the Councilman. “But tortured into a broken puppet.”

“If you think anyone can break Charmont,” huffs Ella. “You’ve never met him. He’s as stubborn as an old goat.”

“They’ll have magic users, then,” Trosk’s jaw works. “We don’t have a lot of magic users ourselves. We’ll have to draft, and quick.”

The ugly thing inside One-Eye turns over, trembling. He reached out a hand and grabs Trosk by the upper arm, squeezing. Ella’s eyes were a startling, sharp blue across the table.

“He has enough magic for all of us,” she says.

One-Eye never noticed she knew. The dead and sin-black thing that hides inside him shows its teeth, but it’s not interested in painting the walls with her blood. More than her death as punishment for her knowledge, it wants back the light that makes it all the darker.

One once, One-Eye and his curse agree. They must have Charmont back.

 

X

 

“Stop fiddling,” snaps Margran two days later, frowning at him in the harsh moonlight. “You’re making me nervous. It’s just metal and leather, for the Gods’ sake. If you take it off I’m telling on you, you big baby.”

“It looks a little tight,” admits a soldier, reaching up to hook a finger on one of the leather straps and pull until it snaps back against One-Eye’s side. “I see children more comfortable in high starched collars every day.”

Margran snorts. “You want to be the one to explain to his Majesty why his lover is running around with hatchets in his shirt and breeches?”

The soldier considers this.

“Tight is good,” he decides.

“Someone’s coming,” calls the watcher, snaking down the hill towards them as silent as air. One-Eye watches a silhouette cut itself against the night sky and then blend against the grass of the hill as it moves towards them quickly.

When it comes close enough it says clearly, “Hi, One-Eye, I’m glad you’re back.”

The northman snaps his hands out and catches Alander by the shoulders, so relieved his body goes momentarily slack. Alander’s pale eyes and somewhat puzzled smile at his obvious relief soothe a part of what roars inside him.

“That’s one question answered,” mutters Margran, slapping One-Eye companionably between the shoulder-blades. “What’s the news, Alander?”

“They made camp in a clearing in the forest and have him in an enchanted tent. Apparently it muffles sounds. I haven’t seen him in the last two days since they got him in there, but he hasn’t come out so he must still be there.”

“The wound?”

Alander looks troubled. “He got a sword to the shoulder protecting me. I saw the blade come out the other side and he screamed but then he just kept fighting, so maybe it’s not that bad? But it’s getting ugly. He wasn’t walking right last time they let him get up.”

He clings to One-Eye’s shirt when the man straightens, unwilling to get away. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he says quietly. “They’re all a-flutter.”

 

X

 

 They attack that very night. One-Eye goes first, in his steel-and-leather armor, a hatchet in one hand and a long wickedly curved knife in the other. But he doesn’t wet them with blood at the start; first, he allows the thing inside him to unfurl like the wings of a great dragon and devour the magic that protects his enemies, tearing through it like wildfire.

The magic users die instantly, and then the Kyrrian soldiers rain upon the camp like vengeance. One-Eye swings his hatchet at whatever comes close in his way to the tent, and has killed nearly a dozen men by the time he shoves aside the flap and steps inside.

The blood-splattered cot is there.

Charmont is not.

He stalks outside and shakes his head at Trosk. The general presses the blade of his sword against one of the captives and demands, icily, once, where his King has been taken to.

“Escaped,” the man rasps, panicked.

Trosk freezes. “What?”

“Two nights ago. Vanished.”

Trosk growls and straightens, palming his own face tiredly. 

Margran throws up his hands. “He couldn’t just stay put and get rescued like a decent King. No, he had to go and cock it all up!”

The general shakes his head and re-sheathes his sword.

“One-Eye, you’re a tracker. Go. Find him.”

One-Eye goes.

 

X

 

Char has been careful and clever. His trail crisscrosses itself many times, doubles back, tangles in the forest. But one-Eye remembers how to track, and knows how Char thinks. The King has been moving fast despite his injury, and clearly has a destination in mind.

He finds him the evening of the first day, well-hidden in a hollow tree, too sick to continue.

Char recognizes him when he crouches down and pulls him out of the tree, but he has a lot of trouble finding his feet to walk. The shoulder does look ugly and swollen around the wound, which is crusted with yellow pus.

“I was going to Frell,” he slurs, flinching when One-Eye fingers the scabs around the wound and watches tainted blood and infection trickle slowly out. He’ll need a medic, and urgently.

One-Eye does have a vague notion of the lay of the land thanks to the maps Trosk has shown him. Frell is two days away at a walk. Had he been any less sick, he would have made it and gathered a garrison before they even caught up.

Charmont peers inquisitively at him, like a lazy cat.

“You got tanned,” he murmurs, fond.

One-Eye pushes air out through his nose in amusement and pulls Char to his feet, carefully, carefully.

He catches him when the King faints, and carries him all the way back to the camp.

What follows are three days of controlled panic as five hundred men stay in tight formation around a camp build around a tent in which a King might or might not be dying. Char’s fever runs high enough that he hallucinates. He speaks of a mother he in waking hours barely remembers, a father who is little more than a fond and impressive shadow. He mentions an uncle and flinches at the memory of a snake.

Much of his mumbling makes no sense. One-Eye drifts in and out of the tent, feeling lost like a sailboat with no wind. He eats when Trosk reminds him and sits to the fire when Margran drags him by the arm. Alander takes to following him around like a lost puppy again, sometimes so close One-Eye bumps into him.

Char is mindless for much of the third day. Trosk orders everyone out of the tent but himself and One-Eye, and then crumples tiredly to one end of the cot and buries his face in his hands. One-Eye crouches instead next to Char’s face, and pushes his hair away from his damp and heated forehead. He’s restful, now, limp and pale on the cot.

Alander stumbles suddenly into the tent, face flushed.

“I have an idea,” he blurts, grabbing s fistful of One-Eye’s shirt and pulling at him until he stands. “There’s a river close. Water magic! You can command them to heal him!”

Trosk surges to his feet, eyes ablaze.

“Can you?”

One-Eye doesn’t know. The only thing his magic ever does is yearn to destroy, but he is vaguely aware of the blurred hierarchy of forces in the world, and knows what sleeps inside him ranks quite high. He’s not certain how this could be done at all, but Alander knows the magic better than he, so surely if he believes there is a way, there must be one.

Wordlessly, he bends down and gathers Char into his arms. He’s surprisingly heavy, thin but well-muscled, and it soothes One-Eye not to find him bird-like. He’s manhandled him before, of course, but Char is always willing, not dead weight.

Alander runs ahead of them, yelling for the soldiers to make way and re-arrange in a guarded passage to the river.

It’s a great and calm thing, slow waters passing by with barely a ripple. One-Eye lowers Char to the soil of the shore and strips him of his shirt. Char is vaguely awake, eyes slit open, and even makes a token attempt to help. One-Eye grunts, and he desists.

“What’s going on?” he croaks.

Alander crouches at his other side and grasps One-Eye’s wrist, eyes intent.

“I can’t put wards in you,” he says clearly. “So you’ll have to control it yourself.”

“Control _what_?” Margran glances at the askance and then stares at Trosk. “You sure this is good idea?”

“You have a better one?” replies the general, and then frowns down at Alander. “Control what?”

One-Eye lets Alander deal with them and lifts Char back to cradle against his chest as he walks into the cool water of the river. The King murmurs when One-Eye shifts his weight, so that his back is against the northman’s chest. He tries to put his feet on the slippery mud, but he’s too weak and too short besides.

The water shivers around them. One-Eye inhales against Char’s sweat-damp hair and closes his eyes, focusing on the writhing growling thing inside his body.

“Alright,” he hears Alander say. “This is sort of long and complicated to explain but I guess in short words? One-Eye is the god of death.”

There is a long pause.

“Oh gods,” whispers Margran, strangled. “The god of death likes dick.”

“What do you _mean_ , the god of death?” demands Trosk.

“I mean, that a long time ago, a baby boy was born to be the receptacle of evil in this world and bring about the end of times. But then he had an okay childhood and wasn’t evil, or I don’t know, he doesn’t talk about it, but the gist of it is he grew up to be a decent person. So the evil inside him tangled up and balled in on itself and became this thing that is sort of caged inside him, and mostly it sleeps. But then sometimes it doesn’t. And he doesn’t really have a grasp on it. He needs someone else to contain it, because he doesn’t have magic _himself_ , you see? So when he fought, I drew wards on him with blue mud, which binds him to me, sort of. But I guess that’s faded by now.”

“It didn’t occur to you to mention this before I let him move in and sleep with my King?”

“Sorry. Oh, and he also has visions. Of the future. Sometimes. That’s pretty much it.”

“Oh, alright, it’s _just that!_ ”

One-Eye stops listening to their conversation to focus on the water around him. The magic of the running water is clean and cold, nothing like the burning darkness he knows so intimately. It shies away from him as it flows, folding back, giving way. It won’t do what he needs it to. Frustrated, the thing inside him snaps and claws at it, and the magic recedes further away. One-Eye grunts.

“’Salright,” slurs Char, letting his head drop back to One-Eye’s shoulder. “The cold is nice.”

One-Eye exhales and calms himself. He wants Char to live. Surely even he, a creature meant for chaos and destruction, can have one thing he desires. There’s plenty cruelty in the world, but surely he can ask it this; to forgive this one life, to give him this one boon.

The river water around them grows cold enough Char begins to tremble. One-Eye grits his teeth, and feels all at once the shifting of the magic as it streams from the water, licking at lapping at the wound. Char convulses in his arms, gasping, but One-Eye isn’t certain it’s from pain or cold or something else; he himself is assaulted by something he’s never experienced before. The entity in the river opens its eyes in his mind and stares him down with eyes made of the blue of oceans near and far; it’s old and kind and cleansing, and it moves about them like a serpent, its ghostly scales rubbing against the many old scars along One-Eye’s back.

One-Eye sucks in air sharply through his nose and chokes. Pain starbursts inside his ruined left eye and rakes hot coals down his throat, mind-splitting. He’s never felt anything like it. The water is speaking in low murmurs, soothing, but the pain—the pain is _maddening_.

Something has gone very wrong, he thinks, and twists to try and reach the shore where Char will be able to stand on his own in the shallow water. The water grows agitated at his struggle, the currents picking up around him and pulling him instead back towards the middle.

Someone wrestles Char out of his arms and puts an arm around One-Eye’s chest, but the water is growing angrier.

“Gods, please, this isn’t _fair_ ,” Trosk mutters in his ear. One-Eye’s back is against the old general’s chest, and he can feel the man struggle in the water, but they don’t seem to be moving. One-Eye strains to turn his head and catches a glimpse of Margran dragging Char safely onto the shore where he leaves him in a soldier’s arms. Then the lieutenant makes to go into the water again, face set in a mask of horrified determination, but Alander steps in front of him.

“If you get in there it’ll drown you,” he says evenly. “It’s bad enough the general’s in there with him. We’ll have to wait.”

He says something else, but One-Eye’s mind fractures into different pieces that shatter separately into shards of broken memories, images and sounds and smells he only half remembers. The water is ice-cold but yet boiling, a furious snarl of foam-tipped waves that swirls unnaturally around them and crashes over their heads though Trosk struggles to keep them both above the surface.

Someone is screaming. It takes One-Eye a long time to realize it’s him. He forces his mouth shut on a howl and bites his tongue nearly in half.

Trosk is treading water, his arm a firm band around One-Eye’s chest. “Gods damn you, if you survive being the god of death and then drown in a stupid river, I’ll follow you to hell and _kill you again_.”

Char’s voice cuts through the horror, surprisingly steady.

“Cut open his eye,” he yells, staggering to the water. “That’s where it’s nested.”

“I’m not in a position to perform cosmetic surgery right now!”

“It’ll kill him before it lets him go! The water will keep him alive. But you have to cut it out of him.”

Trosk shakes his head in horror, but he nevertheless shifts until he can free his knife from its sheath. One-Eye catches a handful of his shirt underwater, trying to twist away.

“This is going to hurt,” mumbles Trosk.

It does.

 

X

 

“—still there?”

“Probably blind,” says the healer. “But the eyeball is there, yes.”

“Eyes are powerful,” says Alander, nearby.

“I’m traumatized for life.”

“ _You’re_ traumatized for life? I cut an evil deity out of someone’s _eye_. You want therapy, get in line.”

“Will he be alright, then?” Char’s voice is much closer, right by One-Eye’s head.

“He will heal. Scarred, of course, but he’ll live.”

“Thank you,” murmurs Char fervently. One-Eye is aware now that someone is holding onto one of his hands. It must be Char; the hands are soft and bigger than Alander’s.

A sound of canvas in motion as the healer leaves the tent. There is a long stretch of silence. One-Eye feels Char’s hand in his forehead, his fingers running slowly down into his hair, soothing.

“He was screaming,” says Margran at length. “He can speak.”

There’s another stretch of contemplative silence.

“Your orders, my liege?” asks Trosk eventually.

Char sighs. “I don’t know that I can ride a horse just yet. And I don’t—we shouldn’t move him. Let’s keep camp and wait. We’re safe here. Send a letter to the castle and let Ella know what’s happened.”

“I’ll have a carriage sent,” decides Trosk. “If he doesn’t get better in two days, we’ll take him to the Witches’ Hollow. With the curse gone, he’s just a man. They’ll save him for you.”

“He’ll be fine,” says Alander, quite dismissive. “I’m pretty sure he’s immortal.”

Another long silence.

“Alander,” says Trosk heavily. “I think we need to _talk_.”

One-Eye falls asleep.

 

X

 

He wakes again sometimes later when a stab of brief pain pierces his eyes as the bandage is removed.

Char grimaces. “At least it stopped bleeding—Oh. Hello.”

He smiled sweetly down at him. One-Eye stares.

“Just changing the dressing. Does it hurt very much?”

 The whole left side of One-Eye’s skull aches dully, like a pounding that comes from inside with the beat of his heart, but he’s known worse pain and recently.

“Would you like to sit up?”

He closes his eye in agreement. Char puts down the bandages and slips an arm beneath his shoulders, helping him to a sitting position. He sits quickly behind him to brace him up against his chest, combing One-Eye’s hair back from his forehead slowly.

“It’s a bad wound, that’s why you’re weak. You’ll be fine soon.”

Outside, he can hear the coming and goings of the soldiers, five hundred living men existing only to keep Kyrria and Charmont alive and safe. But inside the tent, and inside One-Eye, it’s quiet.

“Yes,” he rasps, in a voice that is foreign even to him and sounds like it’s been dragged across miles of broken glass. He wonders if his throat is sore due to years of disuse or because of all the screaming he did in the river. He has an idea that it was quite a lot.

Char shudders on an exhale and presses his forehead to One-Eye’s temple.

“Next time,” he adds, voice breaking unevenly. “Stay for the rescue.”

Char laughs so loudly that Trosk ends up coming into the tent and frowning down at the both of them.

“You prick,” he complains, pointing a finger in One-Eye’s nose. “You owe me a wagon of wine for my troubles.”

One-Eye squints at him. “Come closer,” he croaks. “I’ll show you trouble.”

Char is laughing so hard he’s shaking.

“All the girls in the kingdom at his feet,” says Trosk, coming closer to snatch up the abandoned bandages. “He falls for the foreign jackass.”

But he presses the bandage back onto One-Eye’s wounded eye with exquisite care, and his other hand on One-Eye’s arm is warm and comforting.

One-Eye licks his lips.

“Hjortr,” he murmur, tasting it on his lips and tongue for the first time in a lifetime. “My name.”

Trosk grins at him. Char hooks his chin on his shoulder and trembles with mirth.

The general arches a brow. “What?”

“He kept writing it in runes,” gasps Char, breathless with escalating laughter. “I was never going to figure that out, oh Gods, you’re such a bloody prick!”

“Learn runes,” snaps Hortr, closing his good eyue and leaning back against his lover. “Ignorant child.”

Trosk laughs so hard he falls off the edge of the cot.

 

X

 

“You’ve got sugar in your beard,” says Nilani, younger sister of Alina and newest granddaughter of general Trosk.

“No, baby, I told you, he’s just old.”

Hjortr frowns at Trosk. “You’re twice my age,” he points out in his low, broken voice.

“Shut up,” says the general. “You don’t even know how old you are, and you’re probably immortal.”

“ _Maybe_.”

“Your ‘maybe’ still beats my ‘definitely not’.”

“You don’t know,” suggests Hjortr, swallowing around his aching throat. “No one’s decapitated you yet.”

Trosk eyeballs him. “You just want my job.”

“I won’t have to kill you for it if you quit.”

 Alander leans in from the pew behind them and glares. “Both of you shut up.”

The he pauses and looks down at Hjortr, taken aback. His eyes are glinting and knowing when they raise back to his face. Hjortr is wearing a fine suit of muted dark red, well-fitted but loose enough not to hinder his movements, with details of silver embroidery and black leather.

“Ella dressed you, didn’t she.”

“Pulled us out of bed and dressed us both,” admits Hjortr.

“She’s a control freak,” Trosk’s wife, Chazier, sighs fondly. “I love her.”

“That’s because she hasn’t stomped into your room when you’re in the middle of morning sex.”

“Sex?” asks Nilani, blinking. Trosk and Chazier glare savagely.  Hjortr looks away, stone-faced.

“Oh wow, she’s so pretty,” gasp the girls around them. Hjortr twists around in his seat and then rises along the others as Char and Ella start walking down the aisle, resplendent him in blue velvet and she in a magnificent white silk dress, the veil insufficient to hide her delighted smile. She has, by art of some arcane magic or well-applied yet untraceable violence, managed to control Charmont’s hair, which combs dark and slick back away from his face. His wide forehead and dark beard make him look older.

“I think Margran is dying up there.”

Hjortr glances away from the bride to where the lieutenant stands by the altar, looking as nervous as a newborn foal, albeit an insanely happy one.

Char escorts her to her soon-to-be husband and then comes to sit next to Hjortr, his smile threatening to split his face.

“Uncle Char,” Nilani leans over across Hjortr’s lap and looks at the King with wide, innocent, startlingly green eyes. “What’s sex?”

Hjortr studies the carvings on the stone of the ceiling. Fascinating, truly. What ability.

Behind him, Alander is attempting and failing to stifle his wild laughter.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hjortr means 'stag'.
> 
> I'M SO FUNNY.
> 
> Plantagenet is an English royal lineage, I know. I'm just in love with the way it sounds, and wanted to use it.


End file.
